Page 63 of Craving Sin (Touch of Evil 13)
“Our future,” Graham replied with sincere warmth. "Whenever I gaze into your beautiful blue eyes, Brooklyn, I see our future. And yes, it remains bright."
His words struck her with unexpected force.
He looked at her and saw possibility, not just the weight of her past. Graham's faith in their future wasn't naive. He had seen the worst that humanity could offer, not just in his career, but also in his personal life.
He understood darkness.
He understood loss.
And still, he chose hope.
Time would allow her the ability to do so, as well.
30
Jacob Walsh
October 2025
Tuesday — 7:44 am
The music from the oldies station gradually faded as a news reporter began to update listeners on the months-long search for Jacob Walsh. The announcer’s deep, resonant voice echoed through the chilly wind, reminding listeners of the rampant rumors surrounding Walsh’s presumed death, as his remains had not yet been found. The report addressed the harsh, unforgiving conditions that experts indicated would make survival impossible for anyone seriously injured.
Jacob allowed himself a thin smile despite the lingering pain in his right leg. There was something delicious about listening to one’s own obituary, about the world thinking he was gone while he continued to breathe…to plan.
He shifted his weight on the makeshift cane—just a thick branch stripped of bark—and continued his awkward progress around the side of Mekhi Hale's weathered house.
“—four months have passed since the remains of former Governor Kalluk's daughter were found and laid to rest,” the announcer shared, his voice crackling through what sounded like cheap speakers. "Special Agent Russell Houser was finally released from the hospital last month after suffering a significant setback due to a blood clot in his lungs, but doctors expect him to make a full recovery.”
Jacob’s leg ached as he limped gracelessly around the rundown house. His broken leg hadn’t healed as it should have. With each strained step, the stick cracked the frost covering the blades of grass, creating irregular impressions next to his uneven footprints. After four months, he still struggled to walk without the sensation of nails driving into his femur.
Four months of agony…of hiding…of waiting.
He had survived worse.
The shed came into view around the corner of the house—a squat, gray structure with peeling paint and a door that hung slightly ajar. The radio inside blared at a volume that told him the old man's hearing was failing.
Perfect.
Jacob had learned to exploit other people's weaknesses, slipping into the gaps their deficiencies created. He paused, leaning heavily on the stick as a particularly vicious spasm gripped his leg. His mind flashed back to the moment everything changed—when the ice beneath his feet had gone from solid to nothing in an instant.
There had been a deep, resonant crack that seemed to come from the very heart of the mountain. Brook had alerted them that something wasn’t right. He remembered the brief moment of suspension, when his eyes had locked with hers—both of them understanding what was about to happen but powerless to stop it.
The world had fallen away.
The descent had been both endless and instantaneous. Gravity had claimed him, his arms underneath the blanket tied around his neck. There had been no purchase to be found, nothing for him to grab onto—only a vertical shaft of ancient ice. Houser's shout had bounced off the walls of the narrow chute until the impact had driven the air from his lungs and destroyed the light in the man’s headlamp.
Jacob recalled landing half on ice, half on the federal agent, a tangle of limbs and sharp pain. Something in his leg had snapped with an audible crack, and his ribs had flared with agony as they connected with Houser's service weapon. They had tumbled and skidded across an ice shelf, finally coming to rest in perfect darkness.
Jacob had lain there, struggling to breathe through the pain, waiting until he could stem the nausea to move. The man underneath him hadn’t moved at all. At first, he thought that Houser was dead. It hadn’t been until Jacob dragged himself off the agent and pulled the blanket aside that he could determine a faint pulse.
Not that it had mattered.
Houser had landed on the bag of supplies that he carried with him, so it was only a matter of rolling the agent off the duffel to search the contents. The mere idea of freedom gave Jacob enough adrenaline to retrieve a headlamp and seek the handcuff keys on Houser’s belt.
The memory of dragging himself away from the unconscious agent still made him grimace. Each movement had been a study in controlled agony. His leg had been bent at an unnatural angle, and every breath had sent daggers through his ribcage. But he had persevered, pulling himself along the ice with the bag of supplies.
Fortunately, he had explored the tunnels extensively over the years. Though the vertical shaft had dumped him into unknown territory, he still had a faint idea of the direction needed to gain access to an exit.
